All right, you collection of tree-hugging limousine liberals, pinko Commies, dope fiends, queerbaits, ladyboys, fat chicks, feminazi castrators, and assorted freaks: You wanna talk about mancations? Let's talk about mancations.
The last vacation I took was when me and my stepmom Cheryl went down to Branson to meet some of our high school friends for a sorta reunion. Mostly it was a bunch of Choraleer dorks that Cheryl knew from her days singing Hall & Oates medleys while dressed in some poofy-sleeve shit that looks like it was made from my Uncle Frank's track pants. She's still got that crap in her closet, too.
Anyways, the whole weekend was a total bust, because, first of all, the hotel was shitty—it didn't even have water in the outdoor pool, so I was just like running around in there, which was totally boring after about ten minutes—and every time the guys wanted to have some man fun, the women would start driving us crazy with all the whining. "Will you stop shooting your guns off in the parking lot? We can't even hear the TV!" Blah blah blah. "Will you stop prank calling the front desk and ordering 'titties' from room service? You're gonna get us kicked out!" Nah nah nah. Like that.
So you see why I don't go on vacations anymore. Now I go on MANCATIONS.
Me and my friend Dick Balzac, and his cousins Rod and Peter, who are a coupla real stand-up guys, take a week once every year to get away, just the four of us dudes. Dick's got a great cabin in Kentucky—well, it's actually not a cabin, but this RV he was living in after his divorce…? Anyways, it broke down there once in these woods just outside Big Bone Lick State Park, and he never fixed it and no one ever hauled it away, so it's basically like our secret getaway and shit.
Yeah, so we head down the second week of July every year, which is when Boone County puts on their annual Sausagefest, a celebration of sausage-making and whatnot. Maaaaaaaan, it is great. Just four guys chowing down on sausage, like Real Men.
And there's plenty of other manly shit to do, too. We go buck hunting—them guys use pansy shit like bows and rifles, but I hunt armed only with my wolf-like senses and a pair of nunchucks. We never caught anything, though, but whatever. Also, we catch frogs in jam jars and race remote control cars and set off fireworks and…what else?...kick stuff. I dunno. There's a lot of fun stuff to do!
Dick and Rod and Pete like to do this Civil War reenacting while we're down there sometimes, but I don't really get into that, so I use that time to go down to the Pick-A-Part and wrestle old wrecked cars, so I can brush up on my transformer-bustin' skills. Just in case, man. Just in case.
Oh, this one time I found a $20 bill on the front seat of an old F150. That's the kind of awesome stuff that never happens when chicks are around.
So you can see why I am a huge fan of the mancation. It's a real escape from the nagging I gotta listen to all the time from Cheryl and from my ex-wife/fiancée Tammy, not to mention the daily grind of selling weed and ammo out of the garage. And there's shitloads of male bonding, too. I never experience the joy of having my ass slapped by other men anymore, not since I quit BMX racing, and when Dick gives me a manfriendly punch in the balls and I wrassle him to the floor and spit in his mouth, it makes me nostalgic for the days when my dad used to lunge at me, then give me a coupla real good punches to the arm while screaming "TWO FOR FLINCHING, FAIRY!" That's real love, right there. Unsullied manlove.
The only thing that sucks about mancations is that there's no one to clean up after us. I have to admit, it's kind of nice to get back home and eat off a plate that ain't crusted with days-old sausage juice.
[Previously by Butch Pornstache: Happy Taxes and Teabags Day, I'm a Proud Teabagger and Real American, Men and Trucks and Shit, Cats and Shit, Books and Cupcakes and Shit, Ron Swanson Kicks Butt, Dale Peterson is a Great American.]